When mankind finally consumes itself, can any spark of
humanity survive? Layla fights to keep those she loves alive when the zombie
apocalypse unfolds, but she soon learns that zombies are not the only problem.
With mankind silenced, those beings living on the fringe seek to reclaim power.
Layla must learn who to trust, fast, if she hopes to save what is left of our
kind.

“If you ever need to slice someone’s head off, this
is the blade you want,” I said as I lifted a curved sword off the table in
front of me. “We’ve been practicing épée and foil so far, but tonight I want to
introduce you to the sabre.” The practice sabre’s curved blade reflected the
orange streetlight shining in through the window. A grant from the Smithsonian
where I worked allowed me to teach my two passions: ancient weapons and their
arts. “The sabre is a slashing weapon,” I continued and then lunged, showing
the wide-eyed and excited students a few moves. “And in general, it’s my
favorite,” I admitted with a grin.

The students laughed.

“Is that why you have it tattooed on your arm?”
Tyler, one of my best fencers, asked.

My hand went unconsciously toward the tattoo. The ink
was a sword interlaced with other once-meaningful symbols. “That’s not just any
sabre,” I said, mildly embarrassed. “Here, let me show you. I brought something
special tonight.” Setting the training sabre down, I lifted a rolled bundle. I
laid it down on the table and unrolled it to reveal weapons in various
elaborate scabbards.

“Some are épée, foils—you can tell by the hilt—a
broadsword, a claymore, a katana, a scimitar, throwing daggers,” I said,
pointing, “but this, this is a Russian shashka.” I pulled the shashka from the
bundle. “It’s like a traditional sabre, but has no guard. She’s light,
single-edged, wielded with one hand, and good for stabbing or slashing. Not
awkward in close quarters like a Scottish claymore, but it will kill you just
as dead,” I said with a smile. I unsheathed the weapon and gave it an under-
and over-hand spin around my head, shoulders, and back.

The students grinned from ear to ear.

I put it back in its scabbard and handed the shashka
to them. “Pass it around, but keep in mind it is sharp enough to cut a blade of
hair in half.” I then turned my attention to Tyler. “Now, since you’re so
interested, let’s see how you do with the sabre.” I tossed one of the training
swords to him.

Tyler, already in his gear, jumped up and lowered his
fencing mask. “But you’re not in gear,” he said.

I shrugged. “Hit me--if you can.’”

We stood at the ready, made the ceremonial bow, and
began. Tyler was not overly aggressive, which is partially why he was so
successful. He waited for me, moving slowly. He was smart, quick, and often
tried to over-tire his opponent.

I waited, dropped my sword a bit, and let him make
the lunge. He took the bait.

The swords clanged together, and we clashed back and
forth across the strip. He lunged and slashed while I dodged and blocked. He
was fast. I was faster. When he lunged again, I ducked. With an upward
movement, I went in.

“A hit,” Kasey called.

They clapped.

“Man, that’s what you get for taking on a former
state champ—and the teacher,” Trey told Tyler with a laugh.

Tyler pulled off the mask and smiled at me.

Just then, my cell rang. I would usually ignore it,
but something told me to answer.

“Everyone pair up and start working with the training
sabres,” I said and pointed to the sword rack. I went to my bag and grabbed my
cell.

Before I could say hello, she spoke.

“Layla, Grandma needs you to come home,” my
grandmother’s voice, thick with Russian accent, came across through static. I
was silent for a moment. My grandmother lived 500 miles away, and she never
used her telephone. With the exception of her T.V., she hated technology. She’d
cried and begged me to take away the microwave I’d purchased for her one
Mother’s Day.

“Grandma? What’s wrong?”

“Come home now. Be here tomorrow,” she said. She hung
up.

I lowered my cell and stared at it. Confused and
worried, I dialed her back. The phone rang, but she did not answer. I had
obligations: practice, bills to pay, groceries to buy, tons of work to do, and
a date for god-sakes. But my grandmother was the only one I had left in the
world.

“Sorry, guys. Emergency,” I called to my students.

Disappointed, they groaned.

“Sorry. Let’s pack it up for the night.” My hands
shaking, I slid the shashka back into the bundle and rolled up the weapons.
What had happened? Maybe Grandma was sick. Maybe she had some problem. Or maybe
she had seen something.

The monuments on the Mall faded into the distance
behind me as I made my way to my Georgetown apartment. It was Friday night.
Wisconsin Avenue was packed. The upscale shops and restaurants teemed with
people. In the crowd you could see the mix of international tourists,
Georgetown students, and designer-dressed hotties headed to clubs. I sighed.
For the last month I had turned myself inside out trying to get the attention
of Lars Burmeister, the German specialist the Smithsonian had brought in to
consult on our new medieval poleaxe exhibit. He had finally asked me to dinner;
we were going to meet at Levantes, a Turkish restaurant near Dupont Circle, at
nine that night. I had dreamed of authentic dolma and a chance to sit across
from Lars somewhere other than a museum. I had even bought a new dress: black,
strapless, come-hither.

I circled my block three times before I finally found
a parking space. Regardless, I loved Georgetown. It was early fall. The mature
trees had turned shades of deep red and orange and were losing their leaves.
The air was filled with an interesting mixture of smells: the natural decay of
autumn, dusty heat from the old cobblestone streets, and the mildly rancid odor
of too many people. In my 4th floor attic apartment of an old
Brownstone, I could occasionally catch the sweet scent of the Potomac River. It
reminded me just enough of home.

The apartment was ghastly hot. The small, one-bedroom
had been closed up all day. I lifted the window and let the noise of the city
fill the room. The street lamps cast twinkling light across my apartment. The
weapons I had mounted on the wall, swords, shields, axes and the like, glimmered.
I peeled off my sweaty practice clothes. Pulling a bag from the closet, I threw
in several changes of clothes and a few other supplies. On my coffee table, my
laptop light blinked glaringly. An overflowing email inbox, an article on
bucklers that needed editing for a peer-reviewed journal, and a PowerPoint on
Medieval Russian swords for a presentation for next week’s symposium all called
me. My coffee table was stacked with paper. I was flooded with work; half my
department was out on sick leave. There was a bad flu was going around.
Thankfully, I had not yet gotten sick.

I pulled my cell out of my bag. I stared at the phone
for a moment; Grandma’s recent call was still displayed on the screen. I dialed
Lars’ number. My stomach shook when he answered.

“Guten abend, Lars. It’s Layla.”

“Ahh, Layla, good evening,” he replied.

I loved his German accent. He’d learned English from
a British teacher; he said arse with a German lilt. It made me smile. I could
tell by his tone he was trying to hide his excitement. I didn’t let him get
far. I told him I had been called away for an emergency. I could sense his
disappointment.

“I’ll be back by Monday. Let me make it up to you.
Dinner at my place Monday night?”

He agreed.

“Gute nacht,” I said as sweetly as possible, hoping I
had not pissed him off, and stuffed my phone into my bag. I stared out the
window taking in the view. I did not want to go back, not even for a weekend. I
loved my life. Hamletville was an old, ghost-filled place: too many memories,
too much heartache. Yet I knew my grandmother. If she said I needed to come
home, then I needed to come home.

I closed the windows, slid on a pair of jeans, a black t-shirt, boots,
and a light vest. I looked again at the display on the wall. At the center I
had crossed two Russian poyasni or boot-daggers. One dagger had the head of a
wolf on the hilt. The other had the head of a doe. I grabbed them and tossed
them in my bag. I then headed back downstairs and into the night. It was the
last time I would lay eyes on D.C. for many years.

About the Author:

Melanie Karsak, steampunk connoisseur, white elephant
collector, and caffeine junkie, resides in Florida with her husband and two
children. Visit the author at her blog, melaniekarsak.blogspot.com, to learn
more about upcoming projects.

Friday, June 28, 2013

Can
the ultimate choice be made if saving your race means destroying the one you
love?

At
the beginning of the twenty-first century of our era a millennia long war
between two immortal races was coming to an end. The Vampire Elite, the
strongest among vampires, forced the race of immortal beings, the Amiti to
become their blood suppliers, called bloodstock, locking them in their
underground cells and treating them like livestock. The surviving free Amiti
make a final attempt to strike back. The Queen of Amiti is proclaimed a traitor
and is executed. Her death signifies the rise of a new Queen, her young
daughter Arianna who becomes the last hope of her dying race. Arianna totally
embraces her mission and is ready to fight for her people to the last drop of
her blood but encounters an unexpected challenge—the vampire King Tor. They
both are captured into a trap of love where they had to make an ultimate
choice; to kill the loved one or to let their races die.

Vampire
Elite is the epic story of a bitter conflict between two peoples, and the
effect of that conflict on everyone living in its grip. The characters are
driven to love and betrayal, vengeance and sacrifice in a world without easy
black-and-white answers.

Based
on an ancient Egyptian legend, packed with action and intrigue, Vampire Elite
will pull you into the entrancing world of immortals and open new portals into
their hidden universe.

Excerpt
1 (Simone at the Hunter’s auction)

As the auctioneer spoke, two Sekhmi in eveningwear—a male
carrying an elegant dagger and a female a silver tray covered with glass
vials—approached the Amiti girl.

“She’s barely eighteen, ladies and gentlemen. That’s a good
three years younger than the youngest bloodstock you’ll usually come across.
Look at her; she’s stunning, simply stunning, and as you can see, we’ve kept
her well conditioned, in excellent health.”

The auctioneer paused as the male Hunter grasped the Amiti’s
hand and held it above the tray. The girl showed no resistance, her only
display of anxiety the butterfly fluttering of her thick eyelashes. He raised
his other hand, and the dagger flashed in the light as with a swift motion he
slit the Amiti’s palm. The dark, intoxicating scent of
fresh blood filled the room as it poured into the vials.

Simone’s gums began to itch and burn, and she covered her
mouth with her hand so no one would see her fangs punching down. It was
considered terribly rude to expose one’s fangs in public, even among other
vampires. But she needn’t have worried; everyone’s attention was riveted to the
stage and the blood flowing from the girl’s wound. The room vibrated with
bloodlust and sexual arousal.

The female Sekhmi approached Simone’s
table, offering the Royal Pride the first of the blood samples. Knowing that
all eyes were on her, Simone forced herself not to hesitate and took a small
sip—and was immediately flooded with euphoria.

“For this magnificent specimen, we open the bidding at ten
million U.S. dollars,” announced the
auctioneer.

AUTHOR INFORMATION:

Irina Argo
is a combined pen name for two authors, Irina Kardos and Jo-An Torres.

Irina

Irina’s world is dark. She works as a clinical psychologist in a Juvenile
Correctional Facility dealing with the extremes of human behavior on a regular
basis and takes care of her paralyzed husband who suffered a stroke several
years ago. To bring light into her life she writes. Writing has always been her
passion. She is originally from Russia
where she was employed as a TV journalist.

Jo-AnJo-An is a Leo, a lioness who has emerged to
follow her dream, to someday write a book of her own. She owned a costume shop
for 15 years and was able to satisfy and excel in her creative nature. She is
an over-achiever and believes that anything is possible if you believe in
yourself and ignore the nay-sayers. Her philosophy is based on
Shakespeare "It is not in the stars to hold our destiny, but in
ourselves." She currently resides in California with her 5 cats and 1
husband.

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Tuesday, June 18, 2013

Kindle http://www.amazon.com/Shifters-ebook/dp/B00DDXRD8SPaperback http://www.amazon.com/Shifters-A-Charity-Shapeshifter-Anthology/dp/0615829783All of our proceeds from this anthology will benefit the American Humane Association's Red Star Rescue Team, which provides disaster response services for pets and domestic animals.We here at Hazardous Press would like to thank all of the writers who were gracious enough to donate their stories to this collection. We were truly overwhelmed by the number of authors who wanted to participate.Thanks also go out to cover artist Glenn Chadbourne, back cover artist Diana Whiley, and interior art contributors Kris Freestone, and Leia Napier.

Let your pulse race and let chills run down your spine with this scary and hot werewolf anthology. You will find my latest short lurking within the pages along with many other authors who have given their time and talent to help this worthy cause. Get ready to be captivated by this amazing collection!Werewolves are fun! Especially when I can write a short story to help out puppies! I hope you will check out my short story and in doing so, help out the American Humane Association. Animal rescue is near and dear to my little undead heart. Save a puppy, eat a human!

Eve came to Rapid City to escape her parents' messy divorce,
but what she finds in South Dakota exceeds her wildest dreams- and nightmares.
After Eve is attacked by a wolf outside her grandmother's house, she stumbles
into a new and frightening existence as an alpha werewolf. Fated to lead the
pack and obligated to choose a beta to lead beside her, Eve still cannot bring
herself to forget Jericho, the mysterious vampire who saved her life. Will the
wolves force Eve to choose between her destiny and her soulmate?

His eyes were molten silver, burning through me as he leaned
closer. He stopped less than an inch from me, eyes boring into mine.

“Eve,” he whispered, and I lurched forward, bumping my
forehead against his as our lips crashed against each other. His hands came up
to bury themselves in my hair, his grip steadying me as I tried to keep my
balance on the bed.

He tasted impossibly clean, his mouth a revelation of
sweetness. Desire unfurled within my belly, and I moaned against his lips. He
responded with a low growl, pushing against me. For some reason I reacted
instinctively, fighting his dominance, refusing to retreat as he pressed
closer. His hands were rough in my hair, and I responded by placing my own
hands against his chest and pushing.

He didn’t give. Instead he pulled his hands from my hair and
wrapped them around me. He moved us sideways on the bed, shifting together, and
he lay down with me. We lay on our sides, facing each other, and his hand
trailed down my back, sending shivers up my spine. I wanted to be closer, and I
tried to maneuver so that I could climb on top of him, but his hand was firm on
my hip, refusing to allow me to move.

Frustrated, I let the tip of my tongue caress his lower lip,
and I felt him shudder against me. He crushed my hips to his, his hand moving
even lower, gliding over the back pockets of my jeans before he pulled my thigh
up and draped it over his hip.

He was pressed so insistently against my core that I was
finally the one who gave in, groaning as I pulled him on top of me. It wasn’t
so much a submission as an admission of trust, and I felt his lips still
against mine as his hips settled between my legs.

When he pulled back, I wondered if I’d done something wrong.
“What-“

“Shhh,” he said, putting one finger against my lips. He
leaned down and kissed the corner of my mouth gently. “Eve, don’t misunderstand
what I’m about to say.”

What? How was I supposed to respond to that? “That depends
on what you say,” I replied, and my voice was stronger than I’d expected it to
be.

A smile played around his lips. “You have no idea how much I
want you,” he muttered, and lowered his mouth to my neck. His tongue traced a
line along my collarbone, and silvery trills of desire shot through me. I
brought my legs up to lock around his waist, and nearly cried out when he bit
down gently at the curve of my shoulder.

He rolled off me suddenly, breaking the physical contact,
and I was left feeling cold and empty, like I’d been doused with a bucket of
water.

For a few moments the only sound was my shallow breathing as
I tried to calm my racing heart.

His fingers laced with mine, holding my hand as we lay
side-by-side.

“I don’t want to rush this, Eve,” he said at last, and
raised my hand to his lips, kissing my wrist. “I’m not going to push you into
anything you might regret. We need to take our time.”

I pulled my hand from his and rolled onto my side, propping
my head up on my fist and staring incredulously at him. “You think I’d regret
being with you?”

He raised a hand to trace a finger along my cheekbone. “I
think you need to get to know me better before you decide to give me something
so precious.”

I felt myself blushing, and averted my eyes. He talked about
me like I was some kind of rare treasure- a far cry from the boys I’d dated
back in New York.

Jericho leaned up to press his lips to mine again, and this
time the kiss was pure and innocent, as chaste as any kiss between lovers could
be. “Lie with me,” he murmured against my lips, and laid back, his eyes
gleaming in the moonlight.

I snuggled into the crook of his shoulder, resting my hand
against his chest. “You could at least take your shirt off,” I said hopefully.

His chuckle rumbled against my ear. “Go to sleep, Eve.”

It was nearly an hour before I fell asleep like that, secure
in Jericho’s arms.

About the Author:

I first discovered
the world of self-publishing in February 2011, when my 7-month-old son was
admitted to the hospital with severe respiratory issues. During his stay in the
hospital, I tried to keep us both entertained by downloading several books on
my Kindle and reading them out loud.

I read a number of
self-published books and realized that I had an opportunity to share my
writings with the world. I soon decided to quit my full-time job in the
insurance and financial services industry, stay home with my son and write. It
was the best decision I've ever made. My son's health has improved drastically,
and I've never been happier.

I prefer to read
and write YA fantasy, romance, and paranormal romance. The next book in my
Rapid City Wolves series, “Blood Oath,” will be released for Amazon Kindle on
June 1, 2013.

About Me

Dana Wright has always had a fascination with things that go bump in the night. She is often found playing at local bookstores, trying not to maim herself with crochet hooks or knitting needles, watching monster movies with her husband and furry kids or blogging about books. More commonly, she is chained to her computers, writing like a woman possessed. She is currently working on several children's stories, young adult fiction, short stories and is trying her hand at poetry. She is a contributing author to Ghost Sniffer’s CYOA, Siren’s Call E-zine in their “Women in Horror” issue in February 2013 and "Revenge" in October 2013, a contributing author to Potatoes! (upcoming), Fossil Lake, Undead in Pictures, Potnia, a funny ghost story anthology by Crushing Hearts Black Butterfly Press, Dark Harvest,Wonderstruck, Shifters: A Charity Anthology, Holiday Horrors and the Roms, Bombs and Zoms Anthology from Evil Girlfriend Media. Dana has also reviewed music for Muzikreviews.com specializing in New Age and alternative music and has been a contributing writer to Eternal Haunted Summer, Nightmare Illustrated, Massacre Magazine, Pagan Living Magazine, The Were Traveler October 2013 edition: The Little Magazine of Magnificent Monsters, the December 2013 issue The Day the Zombies Ruled the Earth. She currently reviews music at New Age Music Reviews and Write a Music Review.